Panic edged its way into Arturo’s thoughts, coloring them with various gruesome possibilities. Isidora in a dungeon, facing interrogation; even worse, on the streets running for her life from Church soldiers.
He strode forward and took the Alesian by the shoulders. “Where was she last night?” he growled.
Finnéces shook his head, tears glistening in his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Diego, who had disappeared to check on Edan, reappeared in the facing doorway. As the vibrations of the last bell faded, he spoke, “She was with the king.”
Arturo released his hold on Finnéces so abruptly that the man swayed. Sprinting to his room, he returned less than a minute later wearing a shirt but still no shoes, busily tucking knives into sheaths on his belt. “I’m going after her,” he said before his partner could argue.
“You don’t think—” Diego didn’t finish, for the door swung violently inward. Arturo leapt back, narrowly avoiding impact as it slammed against the wall.
Isidora spoke his name, and then she was in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. He knew his hold on her must be causing pain but she clung to him as fiercely, arms locked around his waist.
Over her head, he met Hadrian Visconte’s gaze.
The cleric was bleeding from a gash on his temple. “I found her with the king.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what happened. She was hysterical when I arrived. The physicians called the guards, the guards summoned the Church soldiers. They wouldn’t allow us to leave the king’s chamber until near dawn, when the Minister of War arrived and demanded that we be released into his custody, by order of the princess.
“Amazingly, the soldiers they did as they were told. Several were dispatched to escort us to the dungeons, but halfway there Ignacio went berserk, killing them all. We ran, and were not pursued.” He glanced into the hallway behind him. “We must leave the palace. I don’t know how much time Ignacio bought us with his sacrifice, but it could not have been much.”
“What of Serephina?” Arturo breathed.
“She is safe,” Hadrian replied.
Arturo nodded, lightheaded with relief, and cupped his hand over Isidora’s shoulder. Her cries were soft now and dropping his head, he spoke into her hair. “Fetch your amulet, sturdy shoes and your thickest cloak.” She nodded and drew away from him, fleeing past Diego.
Hadrian took another look into the hallway before entering the room to pull the door closed. He took a shallow breath and lifted fingers to touch his wound.
“Thank you,” Arturo said stiffly.
He nodded, sighing. “I don’t think she killed him by Touch,” he said softly, ignoring Arturo’s sharp look. “He was close to death when she visited. I spent yesterday morning with him, administering last confessional.” Arturo took an unconscious step toward the cleric. Hadrian swallowed, raising a hand for peace. “I know who she is, but by the God, I will never speak of it.”
“Good,” Arturo said. He glanced over his shoulder as Isidora reappeared. Her eyes were startlingly blue, almost aqua from the shedding of tears. From beneath the brim of a dark hood, her features were ghostly pale.
He forced his gaze to Hadrian. “How do we get out of here?” he asked roughly.
Hadrian smiled grimly. “The princess ordered these rooms for you for one reason,” he said, striding to the swept hearth. His fingers danced over the mantle, counting stones, before settling on one in particular. With visible effort he forced the stone to depress. There was a hollow thump, followed by a rush of cool air through the hearth. He ducked his head beneath the mantel then straightened, meeting the questioning gazes in the room.
“Where does it lead?” Arturo asked, but some part of him already knew.
“The Vault de Viana, beneath the Academe.”
There was a strained silence wherein cries could be heard echoing from the corridor. Heavy boots pounded, their rhythmic clapping growing nearer. Arturo struggled to master himself, lifting a hand when Isidora took a step toward him. “Very well,” he said thickly. “Let’s go.”
Hadrian went first, holding aloft an oil lamp to guide their way. At Arturo’s nod, Isidora and the Alesians followed the cleric, ducking one by one into the hearth.
When they were alone, Diego strode to a cabinet and removed from the lowest drawer a long, wrapped bundle. Inside it were swords, long knives not suitable for throwing, and assorted other implements of violence.
In response to his baffled expression, Diego said, “I paid a visit to one of our old weapons caches in the palace. It never hurts to be prepared.”
“No,” he said dryly. “It doesn’t.”
Diego turned toward the hearth, then paused, saying stiffly, “Blast it, brother. We don’t have to go. We’ll stay and fight.”
Arturo knew how much the words cost him, and placed a hand on his partner’s rigid shoulder. “Protect her,” he said gently. “I will find you.” Diego shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Someone’s got to close the passageway behind you. Besides, I cannot leave, not yet.”
His partner gripped his arm, whispered tensely, “Why, Arturo? He did not deserve your loyalty while alive. He does not deserve it now.”
They both glanced at the outer door, beyond which they heard men’s voices, the slide of steel on steel. “This is all too well orchestrated,” Arturo said urgently. “Armando’s death, Isidora and Hadrian’s presence at his end—a foreign woman and rogue cleric. There would have been a swift trial and even swifter execution. Ignacio was the wildcard, an unexpected wrench in the works. Listen, Diego, the bells have just rung and already the High Cleric has taken the palace, is moving to take the city. Even if he had standing orders in place, the timing is too perfect. There is more treachery afoot than I had imagined.”
“Yes, there is,” seethed Diego. “And you are but one man. Not even you can defeat a thousand Church soldiers. It is death if you stay!”
For a moment Arturo’s vision dimmed, clouding with grief. He saw Isidora in his mind, felt his heart give a painful lurch. Shaking his head, he managed a smile for his friend. “If Armando’s illness and death were unnatural, as I am beginning to suspect, I must examine his body for proof.”
“To what cause?” he snapped.
The head of an axe cut through the door above its lock. “Go!” Arturo ordered, shoving Diego toward the hearth.
“God damnit!” Diego growled, but with a final look back, ducked into the passageway.
Arturo yanked out the depressed stone, marked the slow slide and closure of the hidden passage, and turned just as the door splintered. A large sliver of wood fell inward, revealing the hallway. The soldiers outside shouted in triumph as they saw him.
The infamous Bellamont did not look fearsome now, without weapons, standing barefoot in only a loose blouse and breeches, his hair in disarray across his brow and shoulders. They had surprised him from bed, as intended, and with victory already beating strong in their blood, they renewed their attack on the door.
The first man through died from a puncture wound to the neck, delivered almost too quickly for the others to take note. When the third man fell, just as fast and soundlessly, there was still no hesitation in their purpose. They rushed into the room, full of pride and future glory, and one after the other, died at Bellamont’s feet.
When he had retrieved each of his numerous knives from various sensitive hollows of skin, he stepped carefully around the spreading pools of blood and through the broken door. The corridor was empty. He jogged swiftly down the long passages, slowing only when he heard the marching of feet.
Five companies of Church soldiers walked by him that morning, each twice as large in number as that he’d left in the guest wing. In measured intervals they passed, maintaining order with barked commands and gleaming swords. More than once did Arturo feel that he was finished, as eyes hesitated on him.
And yet, with s
uch stillness did he occupy the shadows, he was not discovered.
The gold-plated doors of the king’s chamber were guarded by only four men, who fell in rapid succession without ever glimpsing their ends. Arturo slipped through the doors and closed them carefully. He stood blinking for several moments as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, listening to the murmur of voices in the king’s chamber. Stepping lightly on the balls of his feet, he crept to the door and pressed his ear against the juncture of frame and wood.
“Did he tell her where he hid his signet?”
“No, your Eminence.”
There was a crash as some piece of furniture was overturned, and a muffled yelp of fear. “In months of tending to the man, with all the money I paid you, you didn’t discover anything?” The voice was clearer as it gained volume, and Arturo held his breath as he waited for the other man’s response.
“I told you, your Eminence, Armando hated me. I think he knew we were—”
“Don’t speak it, you imbecile!” roared the High Cleric.
Arturo straightened, took a step back, and struck the door with his heel above its golden knob. The wood rocked inward and he followed its path with leisurely strides, walking until he stood face to face with the High Cleric of the Church. The only indication of the man’s shock was a fluttering muscle in his cheek. Recovering smoothly, the holy man smiled, radiating practiced benevolence as he spread his arms.
“God’s blessings upon you on this dark day, my son.”
Arturo bowed, and when he rose there were knives balanced on his palms. “Tell me, Luther,” he said idly, “have you come to pay your respects to our fallen king, or to rob the body?”
The High Cleric’s smile vanished, white brows drawing together over dark eyes. “If you kill me you’ll be damned for eternity.”
“If I’m damned, it won’t be for killing you.”
Luther’s gaze flickered over his shoulder, where Arturo could hear the other man’s harsh breathing. “What is it you want, Bellamont?” he asked. He stroked his white beard with one hand, head tilted thoughtfully. “I daresay I had thought you’d be relieved at Armando’s passing.”
Arturo glanced over his shoulder at the man who was trying to creep up behind him. The physician halted with a small cry, hands trembling around the vase he held ready to strike. “Put that down,” he snapped.
The vase dropped from nerveless fingers, cracking in half on the carpeted floor.
Arturo turned back to the High Cleric, who had reassumed the role of paternal archetype, hands folded demurely before him, eyes full of false compassion. “I know your heart is filled with conflicting emotions, my son. Armando was like a father to you, but in time betrayed your trust. It is all right to grieve for him, but murder is not the answer. Why don’t we sit down and discuss the ramifications of violence on your soul?”
Hatred, blind and pure, clouded Arturo’s vision. “If you are not gone from this room in ten seconds, Luther, I will cut out your black heart.”
Uncertainty sparked for the first time in the cleric’s eyes. “Don’t you realize that this is all the will of the God?” he asked fervently. “Join me, Bellamont. With you and Serephina sharing the throne, the three of us can conquer this peninsula in Anshar’s name. We will drive every last heretic from the land, securing a future of peace and prosperity, under God!”
Arturo felt some intangible chord of restraint snap within him. The knife left his hand before he realized his own intention, sailing in a blur to root itself in the opposite wall. For a pregnant moment, the High Cleric stood still, eyes wide with shock and blossoming pain. Slowly, he lifted a hand to the side of his head. Blood poured through his fingers, saturating his white hair in moments.
“You’ve killed me,” Luther gasped, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Nay, only removed an ear, and if you don’t leave this instant, your lying tongue is next.” Arturo pointed at the gasping physician. “Tend to your master.”
“You’ll be skinned for this, Bellamont,” Luther wheezed as the physician led him hurriedly from the room.
“Likely so,” Arturo murmured when they were gone.
Aware that he had only precious few minutes before the entire army of the Church bore down upon him, he strode to the bed on which Armando lay. At first glance the king appeared to be sleeping, but such was the illusion of death. His brow was smooth, mouth in a slack and peaceful line. Someone had combed his hair, placed a thin circlet of gold on his head. It soothed Arturo somewhat to know that someone had cared enough to tend to him; that in the end, the king had not been surrounded wholly by enemies.
Wary of touching the body with his bare fingers, he used instead the thin hilt of a knife to draw open the king’s mouth. There was just enough light from behind the curtains for him to see a telltale blue tint on Armando’s gums, a black cast to his tongue.
Slow death by poison was not his area of expertise, and as he bent to sniff delicately near the king’s mouth, he could discern no aroma of any herb he knew. Frustrated, he tucked the knife into his belt and set about searching the drawers of the low cabinets on either side of the royal bed. There was nothing of interest, no implements of mortar and pestle or stems of plants. Likewise, he smelled nothing curious, and found no residue of powder that might have spilled.
He slammed the last drawer shut and paced across the room, scanning the familiar furniture, trying to think of someplace else the poison might have been hidden. As he turned his head back toward the bed, a glimmer of light tickled his peripheral vision. He spun swiftly, senses on alert, but saw nothing. Slowly, he retraced his steps, gaze roaming as he tried to find the light’s source.
He reached the window and looked down, and there, tucked almost completely under the edge of the carpet, was a flash of gold. Kneeling, he peeled back the rug, revealing what lay beneath. It was the signet ring of House Caville, hidden by the king in a final attempt to thwart the man who’d arranged his death.
“Oh, my king,” Arturo whispered, taking the ring in his hand to look upon the great emerald, its surfaced etched generations ago with the standard of Tanalon’s most royal House. Each line was painstakingly detailed with gold, bringing to life the mythical phoenix with its wings dripping fire.
When the Church soldiers burst into the room minutes later, they found it empty but for the dead king. Though the soldiers’ instincts told them Bellamont was long gone, they searched nevertheless, grumbling to themselves as they flung open wardrobes and held candlelight low to see beneath the bed.
Upon reporting to the High Cleric their lack of findings, Luther demanded their return to the chamber, threatening death if they did not find Bellamont’s escape route. Every piece of furniture was removed but the bed on which the king lay. The carpets were turned up and every wall hanging lifted, and still they found no hidden door.
That evening, the thirteen men who had failed in their duty found themselves being led, blindfolded, from the gates of the palace. On the border between the royal seat and the greater city of Vianalon stood a long, formidable structure of hastily commissioned wood and iron. With an audience of nervous soldiers, stoic clerics, and frightened citizens, the men were dragged up the steps of the gallows.
They were the first of hundreds who, in the next months, would hang from their necks until death.
Chapter Fifteen
Isidora could see little of the tunnel through which Hadrian led them. They’d been walking for ages, only the sounds of their footsteps and the erratic dripping of water from the low ceiling to mark their passage. Having never been underground in their lives, the Alesians clung to each other, their breathing shallow as they fought panic every time their arms grazed a slick wall, or their boots came down on a soft, squeaking rodent body.
“How much longer?” she whispered.
She didn’t think Hadrian had heard her, and was about to speak again when he
said, “We are close. Five minutes at the most.”
The cleric predicted rightly and soon the tunnel expanded, allowing them to stand upright without fear of hitting their heads. The light of the small lamp reflected over damp, uniform walls, until it finally met the dull wooden surface of a door.
Hadrian removed from around his neck a thong, at the end of which hung a small metal object. Handing the lantern to Isidora, he fit the key into the door. The loud click of a lock being turned was followed by a unified sigh of relief from them all.
With a smile, Isidora turned to find Arturo. Then, questioningly, she met Diego’s gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She searched again, found no one. “Where is he?” she whispered.
“Where’s who?” Hadrian asked, turning from the door. He looked over their company and even in the dim light, it was clear to see that his face drained of color. “Where’s Bellamont?”
Diego was shaking his head, gesturing ineffectually. “I tried to reason with him…”
“God be with him,” Finnéces murmured.
Isidora looked away from Diego, from the pain in his eyes. She strained her sight into the darkness beyond him, searching for some shadow of movement, some sign that Arturo had followed. Shaking Finnéces’ hand from her arm, she walked into the dark.
“My lady, come back,” Hadrian urged. “He did not follow us.”
“Yes, he did,” she said with certainty, walking faster. Soon she was running, the lamp swinging wildly in her hand. In the low visibility, she thought she saw a shape ahead. As the form became clearer and she recognized the shape of his shoulders, the grace of his stride, she did not slow but ran faster, so that when he caught her he stumbled back several steps.
“Gods,” he gasped, setting her on her feet. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Anshar’s great balls,” Diego gasped, skidding to a halt several feet behind them. “How did you do it?”
Arturo looked from his partner to Isidora, watched helplessly as her gaze lowered to his shirt, as her fingers registered the stickiness of the linen, the smudges of darkness on his face. Her nostrils flared and her eyes widened in horror. He did not stop her as she jerked violently backward. The lamp swung, its oblong pool of light shifting crazily over the walls and low ceiling. She lifted her free hand toward the light, rubbing her fingers together, smearing the dark stain across her skin.
The Gardens of Almhain Page 12